Questionable
by Diana3
Summary: “There are ways to destroy him.” Hints of S/S, S/V. CM February Challenge.


Title: Questionable  
  
Author: Diana (princess_watermelon@hotmail.com)  
  
Rating/Classification: PG-13, Angst Only Not, a bit of S/V and some Sarkney  
  
Spoilers/Timeline: post-Counteragent. Sark's at SD-6, and that's pretty much it.  
  
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, I wish, Baaaad Robot!  
  
Distribution: CM, TAI. if you really want it, drop me a note. I'll say yes ;)  
  
Notes: CM February Challenge. Dream sequence, Vaughn/Irina scene, Freud (Reaction Formation). Thanks go to Rach and Celli for the betas, and to Karen T for the last look-see. All the badness that remains is mine. :)  
  
Summary: "There are ways to destroy him."  
  
***  
  
"I don't trust him."  
  
"Sydney, this isn't about you trusting him explicitly with your secrets. All that is expected of you is to complete one mission with the man."  
  
She sighed, watching the drizzling rain fall on her windscreen and feeling her stomach clench.  
  
"I still don't trust him."  
  
"What do you want me to say? 'Fine, don't do the mission'?"  
  
Her father was getting agitated. She could hear it through the phone. His voice was getting harder as the conversation progressed, and his sentences had lengthened. Never a good sign. She quietened for a moment as he went on.  
  
"The intel Sark has supplied to SD-6 is going to lead the CIA to information that is nothing short of vital, Sydney. This is not worth sacrificing."  
  
"I don't see why Dixon and I can't do this. It's not like he -"  
  
"Dixon doesn't fit this character profile, Sydney. Sark would be much less suspicious in the role you've been asked to become."  
  
"I... couldn't you talk to Sloane? I mean, anything -"  
  
"And tell him what? To rethink the mission because my daughter doesn't trust her partner? He knows, Sydney. This isn't about your trust in Sark; it's about Sloane's trust in Sark. Complete this mission. You'll be fine."  
  
"But I can't work with him if I don't trust him!"  
  
"This isn't high school, Sydney! Learn to trust him, or at least pretend to!"  
  
Dial tone. She tried to breathe deeply, closing her eyes for a moment. Sark. A man she had no reason to trust, no basis on which to trust, no desire to trust, and yet here she was, preparing for a mission on which her life would undoubtedly be in his hands.  
  
She sighed, flipped the phone shut and opened her car door into the cool night air. The rain had started late in the afternoon, slowing by the time darkness arrived, and was now practically gone. Drops fell onto her cheeks, and she raised her face to the sky for a moment. Shoving her hands into her pockets, she walked up the path to her door, noticing that all the lights were off. Francie was asleep.  
  
And for the hundredth time that week, Sydney wished her life were easier.  
  
***  
  
"Run!"  
  
Sydney and Sark sprinted down the hallway, heavy footfalls echoing off the dank basement walls. It was at least another five hundred feet to the exit point, she knew - she'd studied the building's plans on the flight, as she had with every recent mission. Her trust in her new partner was still nonexistent, and each trip was a new test of her faith in herself, planning and checking details again and again.  
  
Now, the Rambaldi device they'd been sent to retrieve was tucked safely into the bag Marshall had supplied her with, strapped across her chest and hitting her with every long stride.  
  
Sark was beside her, keeping the pace extremely well. The black fatigues they both wore suited him perfectly, contrasting with his pale hair, and his arms pumped professionally as they ran down the corridor. Even without looking, she knew she would be able to see confidence etched into his features. She admired that.  
  
Four hundred and fifty feet. She could hear the men behind them, still a fair distance away but gaining each step, chasing them after she'd accidentally tripped an alarm in one of the laboratories. Now they were close to the exit, but with the immediate threat of being caught or killed. Her bullets and Sark's weren't connecting in the sporadic chances either of them had to take a shot, and the men behind them had the advantage of actually being able to see them clearly.  
  
"We're not going to make it," she panted, her legs propelling her forward step after step after step. She glanced over her shoulder as they raced around a corner, and spotted the men at the opposite end of the hall they're just turned out of, still behind them.  
  
"I know," Sark responded.  
  
"How many bullets do you have left?"  
  
"Two. None for a mistake. You?"  
  
She glanced at the gun in her right hand, counting in her mind. "Three."  
  
He swore.  
  
"You can say that again." And then, silence, save for their feet hitting the floor in unison and the growing shouts of the men behind them.  
  
Another few yards, and Sark's hand whipped out, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her into a niche in the wall. She stopped just short of slamming face-first into the concrete.  
  
She tried to catch her breath, speaking quickly. "Sark, what the hell are you doing?"  
  
"There's a door here. We'll use it to get out." As she watched, his hand started passing over the wall, looking for a switch in the semi-darkness. The only lighting came from the sign above the door across the hall, which proclaimed "Die Laborants Einzig" in blue on white, casting an eerie glow over Sark's features as he concentrated on getting them out. Her breath came quickly as she glanced out into the hall, trying to make out shapes, and hearing the pursuers approach.  
  
"There wasn't a door here in the plans."  
  
"It's not supposed to be in the plans."  
  
"You never told us this."  
  
"I didn't think it would be necessary."  
  
"Not necessary? Wait... You've been here before, haven't you?"  
  
"Yes, I have, many times, but I rarely used this door. It leads to a deeper underground hallway, which in turn leads to a bunker. We can get out from there."  
  
"How can I expect to believe you?"  
  
"You don't have to believe me. Just trust me."  
  
There was that word again. Her stomach twisted at the sound of it.  
  
"And how the hell am I supposed to do that?"  
  
He smirked. She could make it out in the dim light, and the voices got closer.  
  
"Well, believe it or not, Sydney, I don't fancy dying either."  
  
"But -"  
  
He kissed her. In the frenzy, it took her a moment to realise that yes, his lips were on hers and yes, she was kissing him back with her fingers in his hair, and yes, that was his hand and ohgodthatshishandanditsrightthere -  
  
He was pulling away before she could make sense of things, speaking breathily into her hair "Just trust me," and then she was being shoved through the door.  
  
She stumbled in. The hall was long, silent, and faintly lit, the walls still a dark grey concrete. And they were sprinting again.  
  
***  
  
"I don't trust him, Vaughn."  
  
"That's understandable, Syd. But all the missions you've been on with him have been successful. We've received information we wouldn't have had if it weren't for his intel, and every day we're that much closer to taking down SD-6. Closer to taking down Sark."  
  
The situation was making Vaughn uncomfortable. He tried not to fidget as Sydney watched him, his eyes darting from hers to her mouth and to the ground before making the round trip. After a moment of silence, she nodded, still focusing on him.  
  
"If you say so." He forced a smile in response. The images from the mission report she'd just given him swirled in his mind - Sark, Sydney, pressed against each other in German darkness. He knew he wouldn't be able to write the words on paper in his report; knew that he should, but didn't want to. Didn't know how to. Didn't want to imagine the scene any more than he was necessarily required to.  
  
Sark was becoming a problem. He'd known it the moment he'd heard about the bastard joining SD-6; now, though, his suspicions were confirmed. Sark was not someone whose actions could be dismissed as simple flights of fancy. Each move he made was calculated, a small part of a bigger plan, each just as threatening as the last. This made him dangerous. No one, least of all Vaughn or the CIA, could tell what thoughts ran through his mind.  
  
The fact that Sark was unpredictable had not gone unnoticed, but Vaughn had the feeling that now would be the time to act. He ignored the twisting in his gut and focused on what Sark's possible future actions could hold. Failed missions. Incorrect intel. Endangering Sydney.  
  
Reassure her, he told himself. Tell her things will be okay. Let her know you care. Get Sark out of the way.  
  
He looked downward again, focusing on a spot before bringing his eyes back to hers and lowering his voice to speak.  
  
"You know we'll win someday, Syd. Soon."  
  
"Yes," she echoed, "soon."  
  
He watched her as she left. And planned his next move.  
  
***  
  
The SD-6 offices were dark for a change. Sydney walked cautiously through the space, taking in the surroundings, noting the one active computer screen on a desk covered with guns, the rubble on the floor that crunched surreally beneath her feet, the light shining from the debriefing room. She walked towards it.  
  
Her father stood inside, gun pointed at Sark, who was simply sitting on the table like a schoolboy, waving his feet and smiling. They both looked over when she walked in, her mouth open in shock and surprise, with no sound wanting to escape her lips. A moment passed before she spoke.  
  
"Dad, what are you doing?"  
  
Her father smiled eerily, a sight she never saw and never wanted to see again.  
  
"This man is of no use to us, Sydney. He's no longer needed." And with that, he fired the gun, a bullet slicing soundlessly through Sark's shoulder. Sark's hand moved up to clutch the wound, a grimace of pain on his face. Sydney jolted, moving backwards, mouth open in a silent scream.  
  
"It's okay, Syd." Vaughn stepped from behind her father and walked over to her, his hand caressing her cheek. "This will all be cleaned up."  
  
"Vaughn?"  
  
A gunshot. Much louder than the one that had been before, and Vaughn stepped to the side calmly to reveal Sark sitting silently, lowering his gun after shooting her father. Sydney's hand came up to cover her mouth, bile threatening to catapult from the base of her stomach. She stumbled forward.  
  
"Sark!"  
  
Her mother. She spun to see Irina Derevko, still in the clothing the CIA had supplied her with when they'd moved her to the Operations Centre, standing stiffly in the doorway, light shining around her. Sydney was confused for a moment as her mother smiled at her and moved to Sark's side, hand passing over his hair.  
  
"Good child," she cooed. She turned to her daughter. "See, Sydney? They can all be tamed."  
  
Another gunshot, Sark's smile, and Irina's body slowly slumping to the floor.  
  
Sydney jumped one last time before Vaughn was moving forward, gun in hand and ready to sail a bullet through Sark's forehead. He was squeezing the trigger when a bloom of red appeared on his chest, and he stumbled forward onto his knees before hitting the carpet, gun falling loudly to the floor.  
  
"Nice shot," Sydney said, nodding at Sark. He shook his head as he stood up and moved closer to her, his wound already healed. His hands were covered with blood as they reached for her. He pointed to her side, and she glanced down. Saw his gun in her hand.  
  
"Why do I have this?" she asked, bewildered.  
  
Sark's eyes smiled.  
  
"You thought you trusted me."  
  
***  
  
Her eyes opened.  
  
Trust.  
  
She rolled over in bed, images racing past her eyes, and tried to fall asleep again.  
  
Morning came with no relief.  
  
***  
  
She stood as he walked in to the space, placing her hand on the glass with a smile.  
  
"Agent Vaughn." He swallowed, to her amusement. "What a pleasant surprise."  
  
"I'm not here for your mind games." His face attempted to become serious, his forehead wrinkling in the endearing way she supposed her daughter was fond of. Irina nodded in response.  
  
"So what are you here for?" she asked, moving back from the glass for a moment.  
  
"I'm here because I need your help."  
  
At this, she narrowed her eyes, even more amused. He cleared his throat, building up courage, and she started to walk around the small space. She could see how nervous she was making him, and she loved it. Loved it all.  
  
"You know that Sark has joined SD-6," he began, and she nodded again. "He's been supplying correct intel, performing admirably on missions, not doing a thing to arouse anyone's suspicions. But with Sydney's countermissions, things have begun to go wrong." He paused, finally meeting her eyes. "Sydney is worried about his attitude towards the missions. And towards her."  
  
Irina could feel her smile growing.  
  
"So why are you here, exactly, Mr. Vaughn?"  
  
"Because Sark is getting too close."  
  
With one glance at his face, Irina understood. Jealousy was an effective emotion, she had to admit. It often caused people to do things they would never willingly do. And on Agent Vaughn's face, she saw that willingness. Knew he would do anything.  
  
She stepped up to the glass, staring him in the eye. "Too close, you said?" He nodded. "And you want my help in. distancing him, yes?" Another nod. He watched her intently, a mix of fear and determination in his eyes, and for a moment, she pitied him.  
  
That moment, however, quickly passed. She watched him waiting for her word, ad there was a silence as she contemplated what to tell him. Simple, really.  
  
"There are ways to destroy him." His face steeled as he focused on her words. "You may not think there are, but he has... many secrets. Dig deep enough, find the right one, and you will get him where it hurts. And he will no longer be a problem."  
  
Agent Vaughn nodded, believing her. As she watched, a look of resolve settled on his face, and he turned to leave, signalling the guard to lift the gates.  
  
"Agent Vaughn." He stopped, turning to face her at the sound of her voice.  
  
"Don't do anything I'd do." She smiled in silent warning, and he stared at her for a moment.  
  
"That doesn't leave me with much, Ms. Derevko." And he was gone.  
  
The last gate closed as his frame moved past it, and the guard settled back against the wall as the area was thrust into silence.  
  
Irina smiled.  
  
***  
  
Home.  
  
Darkness enveloped the street as he strolled silently over the cobblestones, hands in the deep pockets of his coat. He passed the flower store, the pub that was closed at this time of morning, and the police station, a single light inside signalling safety.  
  
Sark's feet made no sound as he walked confidently down the lane, the rain falling in quiet sheets covering him. His hair was wet and clung to his head, raindrops sticking to his eyelashes as he tried to blink them away without success. Home, the house at the end of the street, the one place he allowed himself the simple vestiges of memories.  
  
He passed the house of the Bennetts, the family who took care of his house when he was away on business. There were no lights shining in their windows now; the dawn was mere hours away. A low hedge, a high hedge, and then the towering wall of leaves and the gate that led to his destination. The final few feet.  
  
His hand made contact with the wood of the gate and he pushed inwards, smiling as it creaked quietly in welcome. He turned to close the latch, pushing it with extra strength as he was accustomed to, and resumed his walk up the path to his front door.  
  
There was no front door.  
  
Sark stood silently halfway up the path, the gravel under his feet waiting for movement, the trees swaying in the breeze, the rain now falling in diagonal lines onto his face. He stared into the space that was his house, face descending into his usual blank expression.  
  
There was no house.  
  
After a moment, he took the last few steps up to what had been his home. Nothing remained now, save for the skeleton of the brickwork, the chimney to his left, and three doorframes. He lifted his feet over the threshold, his boots crunching over the glass, the wet ash, the debris strewn over his once-plush carpet. He stood in the middle of what was formerly his living room, staring at the charcoal black of what remained around him.  
  
"Why?" he asked no one in particular. But even before he heard the voice, he felt the presence behind him; knew it had been there the moment he'd stepped through the gate.  
  
"Wrong question, Sark."  
  
Sark smiled, not turning around just yet. He nodded almost in resignation as he asked, "And what, exactly, was the right question?"  
  
A silent smile in the words that followed, the American accent winding around his mind.  
  
"The right question, Sark," it started, no doubt pleased with the current situation, "would have been something to the extent of 'why didn't you think of this earlier?'"  
  
Sark turned, met with nothing but the barrel of a gun, quickening rain and a pair of green eyes harshly fixed on his own. He smiled.  
  
"It ends here, I see." A slight nod at the man who had found him, here, in the town he called home, standing amongst the rubble of his living room. Quite fitting, he supposed.  
  
A nod in return. "It ends here."  
  
He pulled the trigger.  
  
*** 


End file.
